Ghosting
by PRAUS
Summary: When Germany looks at his son, all he can see is his brother's face.
1. Chapter 1  Cell

_**A/N**Warnings: this story will contain allusion to rape, MPREG, character death, and an OC in the form of East Germany. Disclaimer (1): Yes, I know I've already got a story based off the "Prussia is East Germany" premise, but this one entered my head and would not let go, so I had to write it. If none of the above bothers you, feel free to read on. Disclaimer (2) I wish I did, but I don't own Hetalia._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ghosting – a form of identity theft whereby a person takes on the identity of a deceased person.<strong>_

**July 1945**

Germany sits alone in the room they've arranged for him, the setting sun gradually darkening it. He stops himself from bitterly thinking "cell," but in reality that would be a better name for it.

He rests his elbows on his knees, his back remains rigid – the perpetual soldier. He tries not to think what will happen this time as he clasps his hands together to keep them from shaking.

The door cracks open, letting in a sharp sliver of light. From his periphery, Germany sees a figure standing, silhouetted, in the doorframe. One of the Allies, no doubt. Germany refuses to turn his head to acknowledge the presence. A numbness had settled over him – one he doesn't want to readily give up.

"Are you ready for me now?" he asks. His voice is automatic, one he doesn't recognize as his own.

"I've been ready for a while now," is the low, lilting response. It is enough to shake Germany out of his stupor. Even in the low light, there is no mistaking the long coat and pale scarf.

"_Russland__…_" Germany begins, but the name dies in his throat.

Before he can react, Russia hoists him up by the collar.

"What is the meaning of this?" he chokes out, clawing at Russia's hands in an attempt to get the other to loosen his grip.

Russia leans in close and Germany can see the uneven gaze, can smell the alcohol as Russia breathes one word: "Revenge."

In one fluid motion, Russia has pinned Germany, face-down, on the bed. Pulling a length of rope from his coat pocket, he binds Germany's hands behind him.

"You took so much from me, Ludwig. Now it's time I return the favor."

Germany twists his head to speak, but Russia forces it back into the hard mattress.

The blonde nation kicks his legs in protest, but a sharp knee to the small of his back ends his writhing.

Russia unwinds the scarf form his neck with his free hand. Crumpling it into a ball, he shoves it in Germany's mouth.

Germany feels the full weight of the larger nation on him now, the bulk resting just above the bend in his knees. Russia slides an icy hand under the blonde, fingers working at the fastenings of Germany's pants. He bucks furiously, trying to throw the arctic nation off.

Russia laughs at the attempt, twisting his fingers in Germany's hair and yanking his head back.

"Don't waste _all_ your energy, Ludwig. The night is still young."

A clink of metal and a shifting of weight and Germany shuts his eyes as Russia enters him. Shuts his eyes and prays the darkness will take it away, prays it will all end soon. But Russia has an uncanny amount of patience. He will drag this out until his sadistic thirst is sated.

Germany screams. The gag in his mouth swallows his wretched cries. He is being torn apart.


	2. Chapter 2  East In Utero

It feels like a week has passed since that night. For all he knows, it could very well have. Germany has not slept. He doesn't even remember the last time he ate. He lies there, on the stiff mattress, arms wrapped around him. Hours – perhaps days - blur together and he is certain this is happening to someone else.

When the Allies finally bring him into the conference room, he refuses to look at any of their faces. He tries to keep his back rigid, head level, directing his gaze just over them. They assume it's out of pride. Germany thinks they can see through his ruse. He knows Russia can.

As the Allies outline the terms of the agreement, Germany merely grunts, inclining his head to show he is listening, but his mind is far from the conference table. It is in the darkness, back _there_, in that sad excuse for a room. This conference could be a dream for all he knows – something his subconscious produced in an effort to reclaim some form of _order,_ the only form of reality he knows how to handle.

Germany hears his brother's name, followed by the word "separation," and his mind jerks back to the present. He knows the conference is not a dream.

The words wash over him and for a moment, all he can do is stare past them at the bright summer day just beyond the window. Someone calls his name, or maybe it's a fly buzzing in his ear.

Slowly, he lowers his gaze until it meets theirs.

"What do you mean, 'separation?'"

His voice is tight, barely above a whisper. It takes all of his discipline to constrain the animosity. The muscle in his lower eyelid twitches. He feels neck growing hotter as bright red splotches work their way up to his face.

England and America reflexively shrink away. Russia, on the other hand, smiles in that childish way of his.

"We know the influence Prussia has over you," America says, clearing his throat. "We think it would be best to keep you two separated – temporarily of course, while the rest of the nations recover," he hastily adds, seeing the deep crimson shade now coloring Germany's face.

"Yes, and since we don't want _this_ agreement thrown out of the window, we're seeing to your re-structuring ourselves – that is to say, America and myself," England says. "Your brother will be under Russia's authority."

"No! Not that bastard!"

"Do not worry, Germany. I will take good care of your dear Prussia," Russia grins.

"No! Please! Why not – Poland – or – or – just _not__him!_" Germany pleads. His voice cracks in pitch from the strain of desperation. The other nations have never seen this side of the stern blonde.

"I am sorry," England murmurs. "It must be done."

* * *

><p>Germany sits in his room, shoulders hunched and hands dangling between his knees. Giving up conquered territory is one thing, but giving up his brother to <em>that<em> deranged nation is quite another. Germany's stomach turns thinking of it. This surely must be happening to someone else. He is just an observer. Inconsequential. A mote of dust floating in the air, unable to touch the world around him because it had been ripped apart, and _he_ did it.

Germany eases himself onto the floor. Shutting his eyes, he presses his cheek against its cool, solid surface. He needs that firmness – needs it to fill up the emptiness inside him, to anchor him once more.

He must have fallen asleep, for when he opens his eyes again, the clouded moonlight casts his room in faint silver shadows. He is no longer lying on the floor but on the bed. Slowly his mind, still heavy with sleep, processes this. How long had he been asleep? Moreover, _how_ did he get on the bed? He definitely remembered sitting on the edge before sinking to the floor – but maybe he'd dreamt that. Germany thinks that must be the explanation – he's had difficulty distinguishing between dreams and reality ever since that night….

As he props himself up, Germany's eyes fall on a dark shape by the door. The bed is the only stick of furniture in the room. Beyond the window, the clouds shift. The moon's pale light grows brighter, but he doesn't need it to tell him what that shape is.

"Ah, I'm glad you're awake, Germany," says a high, singsong voice.

The blood in his veins freezes. He is now certain he'd fallen asleep on the floor. Russia put him in the bed. He tries not to think about what happened after.

"What do you want, _Russland_?" Germany spits, each word pure venom.

"I just thought you might like to know we're leaving tomorrow. That is, Prussia and myself."

In three strides, Russia is beside the bed, hovering over the smaller blonde. His mouth grins but his violet eyes stare dead, revealing nothing.

Germany unconsciously presses himself as far back as possible, drawing shoulders and knees close. Russia's grin stretches wider.

"I thought you might to say 'goodbye' before we leave. You never know _when_ you'll get to see him again."

Germany grinds his teeth. "Bastard!" He swings his fist but the larger nation catches it.

"Don't go blaming _me_, Germany." Russia squeezes Germany's knuckles. "Maybe you'd be allowed to visit. I'm sure we could work something out."

A strange glint brightens Russia's dead eyes. Germany knows what that look contains.

"I know I'm the one you're angry with, but please, don't hurt Gil."

"I won't hurt him, Germany. But you must do something for me…." Russia's grip tightens.

"And what would that be?" Germany says between clenched teeth.

"Beg."

He twists Germany's arm, snapping the smaller blonde's wrist. He covers Germany's mouth before the other can cry out in pain, the smile vanishing from his face.

* * *

><p>Germany's body aches. He didn't sleep last night. His wrist, carefully positioned on his stomach, is purple and swollen. As he looks at it, he thinks wryly: <em>At <em>_least __he __didn__'__t __tie __me __up._ He snorts at himself – an attempt at laughter dissolves into a heaving sob.

He _did_ beg last night. Begged for his brother's life. Begged for Russia to stop.

When the violet-eyed nation finally did, Germany wanted to die as Russia curled up beside him, asleep, with arm draped across Germany's chest. He shut his eyes, but just as the heavy weight of sleep began to take over, he felt large hands squeezing and tugging at already bruised flesh, demanding more. Germany had no choice but to relent. Russia could easily snap him like a twig – his wrist was proof of that. Russia left before dawn. Germany feigned sleep until he was absolutely sure the other was truly gone.

Now, in the yellow light of morning, Germany eases himself up and sits on the edge of his bed. He rests his wrist on his leg, gingerly feeling it with his good hand. He is still a soldier, still remembers his training. The bone will need to be set.

Germany takes the nearly threadbare sheet off the mattress. He is able to tear it into strips with his teeth and his good hand.

He sits back on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. He holds the broken arm just above the wrist. He breathes deeply, slowly three times. As he exhales the third time, he pulls – teeth grinding against the pain. The bone pops into place.

Germany wraps the makeshift bandages tightly around his forearm and hand. The numerous strips are enough to give support and keep the arm padded.

His jacket sleeve covers most of it. England and America will pass it off as a war injury, no doubt.

* * *

><p>America retrieves him around noon. They walk out to a small courtyard and it suddenly strikes him he has not been outside, breathed in fresh air, in weeks.<p>

Prussia sits on a stone bench, body pitched forward, cigarette held loosely between his fingers. Russia stands behind him. Germany's feet freeze when he sees the large nation. He doesn't want to go any closer. He doesn't need to. Prussia is already on his feet when he sees his younger brother. He flicks his cigarette away as he all but runs into Germany, stopping short of hugging him. The brothers are close but physical affection has always been awkward for them.

America is still positioned near Germany. A glaring look from Prussia and the self-absorbed "hero" takes his leave to go stand beside Russia.

For a while the brothers just stare at each other, as if trying to memorize every last detail of the other.

Prussia coughs. "So…."

"_Ja_…." Germany rakes a hand (his good one) through disheveled hair.

Prussia notices this and laughs. "What? They keepin' your pomade away from you? I all but had to bribe England to get me some smokes."

"N-no. I-I haven't been sleeping well," Germany says, obviously rattled.

"Aw, hey, I don't want you staying up all night, worryin' about me," Prussia pokes Germany in the chest. "Ain't nothing to worry about, West. A few years with _that_ guy, tops," he motions over his shoulder to Russia, "and I'll be back messin' up your house. You'll see."

"Gil, I – " Germany starts, but his brother is flashing that cocky grin of his. He wonders where Prussia gets his endless supply of arrogance, and before he's even aware of it, Germany pulls his brother into a one-armed embrace. He tenses slightly when he realizes what he's doing, but surprisingly, Prussia is hugging back.

"Just be careful, Gil," Germany whispers. "You don't know what he's like."

Prussia ignores the solemn forewarning.

"C'mon, West. I can take anything that fat fucker dishes out and give it back twice as bad."

"For me, please…be careful. Don't let him…don't give him any reason to…."

"Okay, okay, _bruderlein_. For you."

When they part and are led off by their respective guardians, Germany looks back. Prussia does the same. They hold each other's gaze one final time, across the interminable distance. Germany knows he will never see his brother again and silently regrets not telling him he loves him.

* * *

><p>The Allies finally let him go in August. He finds it both comforting yet strange to be in his own house again. The neatly placed furniture, pictures hung with a level's precision, all somehow seem out of place despite not being touched for a month. Germany fidgets, busying himself with re-arranging his house. That is to say, he moves the furniture out of place only to put it back where it started. He unpacks his pantry then re-packs it, first alphabetically, then by size, and finally back to how it began – similar items grouped together, sugar and flour for baking, potatoes and canned vegetables for meat dishes, et cetera.<p>

He needs these absurd distractions. The almost ritualistic cleaning paired with his pre-war exercise regimen keeps his mind focused, keeps it from wandering into territory he's not quite sure how deal with or if it exists at all….

America checks on him, letting him know about the meetings the Allies will be conducting. It means Russia will be there. Germany grimaces in response.

He's allowed to come to the meetings but only permitted to voice his opinion when asked. The Allies mostly just argue. The sound is like a pneumatic drill in his ears. And France, having put up a fuss, is now part of their little council. That makes four uninvited guests in his land. Though England and America are tolerable (barely), he can't stomach being in the same room as Russia _and_ France.

Germany retreats to his home – a space they have thankfully not invaded (yet) – preferring to do what little paperwork they give him in solitude, now attending the meetings when he feels obligated to do so, which isn't often.

* * *

><p>When he gets sick in the mornings, he tells himself it's just nerves. The world is still reeling from the war and he feels his people's anxiety about the future. But the bump is harder to ignore.<p>

He notices it after three months – the way his abdomen juts out over the band of his pants. Germany increases his exercise to twice a day and cuts out beer even though he knows he doesn't drink nearly enough to have a gut. But the protrusion persists.

Germany buys bigger clothes to hide it, but after another two months a noticeable roundness pokes out of his button up shirts. He stopped going to the meetings altogether in October, hiring a courier to bring him any documents to be completed. He quickly racks up a backlog of paperwork, but he is _so_ tired….

A soft rapping at the door breaks his attention away from the stacks of folders. Germany heaves a sigh in annoyance. He takes off his reading glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose. He _needs_ to get this done and _really_ doesn't want to entertain visitors….

They knock again, this time louder, with urgency.

"All right!" he growls. "I'm coming."

He slowly pulls himself to his feet, using the desk to steady himself - he gets light-headed easily, and the pain in his legs is not helping.

Germany wrenches open the door, scowling. It's France.

Realizing too late he's left his cardigan unbuttoned, Germany pulls the tight sweater closer around him, folding his arms over his chest. It's a futile attempt. France's keen eyes have already spotted the protrusion.

"Have you come for your part of me too?" Germany spits. He knows of France's interests in the Ruhr region and expects some lewd joke about wanting control of Germany's lucrative steel. But France remains silent.

"Well? What do you want?" Germany barks.

France's eyes flit up to meet Germany's. They are soft, almost sympathetic. And Germany realizes for the first time he is seeing France not as a nation but as a person – as Francis Bonnefoy. The concern in Francis' eyes reflects his own, and it is this look that disturbs Germany more than any joke France could have made. He is lost and unsure and _Gott!_ he just wants some one to tell him what to do. He cannot deny it any longer.

He steps aside – not as Germany but as _Ludwig_ – allowing Francis to enter.

They go into the kitchen and it doesn't take Francis long to figure out where the meticulously organized Ludwig keeps his coffee – in the cabinet right above the appliance on the counter.

Soon the earthy aroma fills the room and Francis hands Ludwig a steaming mug. Ludwig stares into his mug, swirling the black contents, waiting for Francis to speak. But the Frenchman is silent, sipping his coffee, watching Ludwig with an almost knowing expression. Ludwig doesn't have to tell him anything – Francis has already guessed – but keeping it in is wearing the German down. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, he can barely keep breakfast down without vomiting, and _some__one __has __to __know!_

The seconds tick by, each one slower than before. Ludwig wishes Francis would _say __something_, but the Frenchman just sits there, sipping his coffee.

He brings his own mug to his mouth, and in that simple act of parting his lips, Ludwig finds himself nearly dropping the mug and telling Francis everything – _everything!_ – including details he thought he'd blocked.

Francis nods, never once interrupting. When Ludwig's mouth goes dry, when his throat becomes raw and he can no longer speak, only then does Francis say anything, each word chosen weighted with thought so as not to upset the volatile German.

"It's why I came to see you, _l__'__Allemagne._ America, England, and I had an inkling, after the last meeting you attended. You looked so…different."

Ludwig buries his face in his hands. "What do I do, Francis? How do I tell them?"

Francis' face is set, determined. "I will take care of it."

Ludwig squeezes his eyes shut and nods. Fighting the tightness in his chest, he clears his throat and asks: "…And…what about…_him?_"

"You have our support, _mon __ami._ You are not alone. We will do our best to keep him away if you wish."

Francis finishes his coffee and stands. Ludwig sees him to the door.

"I will be seeing you soon, Ludwig."

Francis extends his hand.

"Thank you," Ludwig murmurs, clasping it. "For everything. I-I know it's not enough, with everything that's happened, but...thank you."

Francis nods. "_Au __revoir._"

With a casual wave, he sets off down the street, lighting a black cigarette. Ludwig watches him go, a sudden lightness spreading through his chest. He feels his shoulders relax, rolling back. A weight has been lifted.

* * *

><p>"Whoa, dude! Can I rub your belly?"<p>

"What? Hell no!"

It is Christmas. The Western powers gather in Germany's kitchen. America has just entered and is reaching for Germany's stomach.

"If you touch me, it will be the last thing you – hey!" Germany tries, without much effort, to get away from America's hands, playfully brandishing a wooden spoon. He is laughing – a deep, rich peal, like church bells. He can't remember the last time he laughed….

The over-eager nation manages to get a hand on Germany's stomach, rubbing it gently.

"Man, that thing is rock solid!"

Germany plants both hands on his hips, giving the young nation a look that says: _Well, __what __were __you __expecting?_

America bends down, putting his ear against Germany's belly.

"What the hell are you doing now?" the tall blonde balks.

"Shh. I'm tryin' to see if I can hear anything. Supposedly they can hear talking and music and stuff – I just wanna see if I can hear the little guy moving around."

"First of all, you _feel_ them moving. And second, what makes you think it's a boy?"

But America flaps his hands, shushing Germany again. The blonde gives England a look of feigned exasperation and asks: "Can't you control him?"

"Unfortunately no," England drawls. He leans on the counter, chin propped in one hand, eyebrows rising in amusement.

"_Mon __Dieu! _You _all_ need to clear out of this kitchen so I can finish cooking dinner!" France shoos England and America into the living room then rounds on Germany, snatching the spoon from his hand. "And _you,_ Ludwig, need to stay away from the stove before you explode."

Germany begins to protest but France cuts across him. "And yes I _will_ clean up the mess, Ludwig! You need to relax, _l__'__Allemagne,_" he says in a softer voice. "I am quite capable in a kitchen. Now go, have a seat. Put your feet up, okay?"

* * *

><p>After dinner, they sit by the fireplace in the living room. Germany's gut is fit to burst - France certainly knows how to a roast goose...and potatoes. America breaks out a deck of cards, challenging England to a round of gin. France sips a glass of wine, watching them.<p>

Germany stares into the fire. He absently rubs his pregnant stomach, realizing he isn't trying to hide it any longer. It feels okay, somehow. Not strange. Not shameful. But okay. Germany smiles to himself and closes his eyes, enjoying the heat against his face.

He returns to the meetings after the New Year with a newfound confidence. Russia's lascivious stares – once so quick to make his skin crawl – are now ignorable. He has friends – ones he can trust – and they _will_ protect him.

* * *

><p>It is February and it is snowing. The meeting ran longer than he would have liked. The sky is already black with nightfall. As Germany steps outside, debating if he should walk or call a taxi, Germany realizes he's left his briefcase in the conference room. He sighs, half-annoyed, and heads back inside.<p>

His swollen feet begin to complain in their too tight shoes as he makes his way down the hall. Germany reasons a taxi is probably best as he enters the conference room.

He locates his briefcase, bending carefully to retrieve it. A sudden movement causes his back to go rigid. The room was empty when he'd entered, he's sure of it. The other nations all left before him….

"You look good, Germany," a light singsong voice says from behind.

Sweat beads form along his hairline, but Germany keeps his voice even as he asks: "What do you mean by that?"

"…You just…have this _glow_ about you. It suits you," Russia says, walking over.

Germany shuts his eyes briefly, steeling himself. He faces Russia, realizing too late he's in a bad spot. His back is against the wall – there is hardly enough room for them to stand, face to face, the tables and chairs are packed so tightly together. Running is out of the question and he's not stupid enough to fight his way out.

Germany pulls his coat closer around him. "I have to go – "

"No you don't," Russia says, flattening his palm against the wall. Germany stares desperately at that thick arm. He is trapped.

"So how are you?" Russia's voice is irritatingly casual.

"Fine." Germany's nostrils flare, noticing the way Russia's eyes rake over him before resting on the bulge between them. The room is so cramped and Russia is practically pressed against him. Germany slowly begins to inch along the wall. If he can just duck under Russia's arm…and head for the door….

Russia brings his other hand up, touching his pregnant belly. Germany's skin bristles.

"Please don't…" he breathes.

But Russia doesn't hear him. He's giggling – loud and childish. Germany's brow furrows before he realizes what caused the outburst. The baby is moving. He had felt it kick maybe once or twice before, but now…now it feels like the kid is doing somersaults!

"Hello little one," Russia coos.

Germany's mouth falls open, smiling. He brings his own hand to his stomach. "I've never felt _that_ before…."

Violet eyes flick up to meet icy blue and for once, there is light behind them. There is light and warmth and it reflects the genuine smile stretching Russia's lips.

The massive hand drops away from the wall, coming to rest over Germany's own. Russia _is __holding_ his pregnant stomach and Germany can't move…doesn't want to move…because it _almost_ feels right…he _is _the father after all….

Russia's face is getting closer. The room starts to spin, the crushing reality pressing on him. Germany is sure he will vomit.

"Stop!" he manages to cry. "Just…stop!" He brings his arms up, shoving Russia against the table.

"Ludwig…." Russia's face falls.

"I don't want you coming _anywhere_ near me! Got it? Just…just _stay __the __hell_ _away_ from me you sick bastard!"

Germany slides along the wall, backing to the door. Russia catches his hand – the one he broke months ago – needing to speak. Germany stops, sick with himself – for not being able to fight back and for _wanting __to __hear __Russia __out._

Russia's thumb brushes over Germany's knuckles. He opens and closes his mouth, brows knitting, gaze locked on Germany's hand.

"…I understand," he says at length. "I will do as you wish, Ludwig."

He brings Germany's hand to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss.

When the large nation relaxes his hold, Germany quickly pulls his hand away. He clenches it into a fist and shoves it in his pocket, making for the door.

"I forgot to give you something," Russia suddenly says, voice lacking its usual lilt.

"What is it?" Germany coldly asks, turning to face him again.

"I came back here to give you this, but you'd already left." Russia reaches into his coat and takes out an envelope. "A letter from your brother."

Russia holds it out. The smaller blonde hastily grabs it, turning it over in his hands. He recognizes Gilbert's untidy scrawl across the front. The back is still sealed. No signs of tampering are evident, meaning…_Russia __did __not __read __it!_

"I always keep my promises, Ludwig," Russia says, exiting the conference room and not even looking at the smaller nation when he spoke.

Germany collapses into a chair, chest heavy, like the wind got knocked out of him. _A __letter __from __Gilbert__…_and he hadn't even _thought _of writing. _What __kind __of __a __brother __am __I?_ Germany runs a hand over his tired face, trying to dispel his guilty thoughts. He'd been so pre-occupied…_hell, __Gilbert __didn__'__t __even __know__…__._

Germany tears open the envelope, a smile spreading across his face as he pulls out a lined sheet of paper covered in his brother's sloppy handwriting.

_West,_

_What the hell! I am so kicking your ass when I come back home! How could you not tell me, your own brother, you were pregnant? I found out from Hungary, who found out from Poland, who found out from Austria, who found out from Spain, who found out from France! What the hell! Okay, I mean, I guess congratulations are in order. So there you go – congratulations. But seriously, you should have told me. Maybe I can get permission from Russia to visit. They said you were due in April. Is that true? Just let me know, okay? I want to be there._

_All right, enough of this caring brother crap. Onto a more interesting subject: me! Ha-ha, just kidding. But I figured you might want to know how I was over here (and if Russia's letting you read this, you can pretty much guess). I get to hang out with Hungary and Lithuania again, so that's cool. Russia can be a dick, but that's to be expected from that crazy fucker. We just tune him out when he starts yelling, or spike his tea with some homemade schnapps so he passes out. Hungary makes it and that stuff will burn your eyebrows off. Apparently he can't handle it as well as his cheap ass vodka. Come to think of it, maybe I should butter him up with some of the good vodka before I ask if I can come visit. I think Poland has some connections. I'll check on that. Write me back, okay?_

_Yours,_

_Preussen_

_Oh_ _Gott!_ Germany rests his head in his hands, a numbness overtaking him. _Oh Gott!_ He's ruined it. Ruined any chance his brother may have had to visit. That look – in Russia's eyes – that was pure hurt. Germany pushed him away – away from him and away from their child. And now, Russia had a way to hurt _him_ all over again. He could use Prussia as a bargaining chip. Germany's fingers claw his scalp. He wants to rip his hair out. Instead, he looks down at the letter, wondering what to write in response. He can't tell his brother not to ask because Prussia would do it anyway. He could just pretend everything was all right and answer his brother's questions, secretly thankful Prussia did _not_ inquire about the father. And Germany does just that, pulling out a sheet of paper from his briefcase. He'll give his letter directly to Russia tomorrow and ask him to deliver it to his brother. It will be his peace offering. He just hopes Russia understands.

* * *

><p>In mid March, France comes to his house with a letter from Gilbert. Germany already knows it's bad news. Unlike the first one, Russia did not give it to <em>him<em>.

He tears the slip of paper from the envelope. On it are a few hastily written words: _Can't come, little bro. I tried._

Germany crushes the paper in his fist, hot tears sliding down his cheeks.

As March draws to a close, Germany has postpones going to the meetings. The three Western powers still visit. He learns Russia has stopped going to the conferences. He bitterly thinks it's out of spite, wanting to keep a close eye on Prussia and make sure he can't try anything. Germany silently regrets not telling his brother the truth – Russia would be out of the way (Prussia would see to _that_) and they'd be together – but how could he say all those things in a letter?

* * *

><p>April arrives, chilly and grey. Germany is irritable and uncomfortable. He has not been sleeping well. The baby presses against his pelvic bone and he just wants it out already.<p>

France has moved in, temporarily occupying the guest room across the hall from Germany's bedroom. He acts as caretaker – listening to the other blonde gripes, fixing meals, and constantly admonishing Germany to stay off his feet. They have practiced breathing techniques and discussed the delicate points of the birthing process – it will require a cesarean section. France has found a hospital with a doctor willing to perform the operation.

The contractions start at two in the morning. Germany is already awake, staring at the ceiling. He has prepared for this and begins to count. They are twenty minutes apart. Still fairly early. He lowers his feet to the floor, hoisting himself out of bed and begins to pace his room. After two more hours, they are closer together. He needs to wake up France.

Cradling his bulging belly, Germany waddles across the hall. "It's time," he breathes, gripping the door's frame with one hand.

A sleep-laden "What?" is the response.

"Francis," Germany says firmly, "it's time!"

The other nation bolts up, clicks on the lamp, and grabs a pair of trousers from the floor. France helps Germany down the stairs before practically tripping over his own feet as he hurries to pull the car around.

They get to the hospital and are given a room. France perches nervously in a chair by Germany's bed, taking the other's hand. They wait.

* * *

><p>He returns home after three days, holding his <em>son<em>. America had been right. France remains with him to help. Germany is able to walk, not far and not for long but he's improving. His abdomen is still numb from the surgery.

"Have you decided on a name yet?" France asks. "He's a week old and _still _doesn't have a name."

Germany awkwardly shrugs his shoulder. His son nestles against his chest, fast asleep. "I guess I'm still waiting to see what his personality will be like. Right now all he does is eat, sleep and cry."

France's lips twitch into a smile. "Well, don't wait too long, _mon __ami._"

Germany nods, brushing a hand over his son's fuzzy white-blonde hair.

"And you're right," France continues, "he _does_ eat. A lot. I have to go to the store again. You're almost out of formula. I'll be back soon."

After France leaves, Germany settles his son in his crib. The baby whimpers but Germany is distracted by a knock on the door. Thinking it might be one of the other Western powers, Germany answers, immediately regretting it.

"I've come for the child." Russia's voice is cold.

"I _told_ you to stay away – " Germany hisses, trying to shut the door. Russia stops it with his boot.

"Away from you, yes. And I have. I keep my promises. But that is _my __child,_ too!"

His son begins to scream. Germany flinches. That sound could be so grating….

Russia studies him a moment. The smaller blonde wavers between wanting to comfort his son and wanting to get rid of the bastard on his porch.

The arctic nation senses the hesitancy and pushes the door open. He sweeps past Germany, making for the crib. In the seconds it takes for Germany's brain to react, the larger nation is already scooping up the crying infant.

"What right have you – " Germany starts furiously, pounding a fist into Russia's back.

"More than you." He faces the blonde nation, cradling their son. To Germany's chagrin, the infant snuggles close to Russia's coat, sleeping serenely once more. He knows it would have taken _him_ at least half an hour's worth of rocking to quieten the child.

Russia heads for the door.

"You can't!" Germany cries.

"Your prejudices make you unfit to raise this child, Ludwig. I cannot have him brought up thinking I am his enemy."

Germany desperately grabs Russia's arm, but he is weak and he knows it. Russia swings his arm back, catching Germany in the chest. The blonde doubles over in pain, gasping for air. He sinks to the floor and can only watch as Russia leaves, holding his son. Germany's heart has been ripped out.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN_** _Congratulations! If you're reading this author's note either you skipped ahead or you've just finished sifting through nearly eleven pages of fanfic-dom. This is officially the longest chapter I've written thus far. I apologize for the length, but I didn't want to split it up – it's quite meaty with a lot of background._

_Anyway, just a few things I would like to say about this chapter/ story so far: Holy crap! I love writing Russia! He just has so many layers beneath his creepy exterior. Yes, Ludwig does have a little post-partum depression. And, as for the whole MPREG thing…I debated trying to rationalize it, but decided not to. Suspension of disbelief is so much better. All I can say is in my head, the countries are both male and female (psychologically and biologically, but only to a certain extent)…some, like Germany, display mostly masculine traits which is why he looks decidedly male. Hungary displays a lot of feminine traits, so she looks female (but she can kick anyone's ass!) France and Italy, on the other hand, are more in the middle, displaying male and female characteristics equally. Anyway, I hope that made sense. And I hope you enjoyed reading! Thank you so much! Reviews are always welcomed._


	3. Chapter 3  Suture

January 1948

Germany wipes the fog from the mirror, watching as the haze re-forms over the track left by his hand. The shape of his torso is blurry but visible. Scars cover his body. He remembers how he got each one and has come to terms with that. Except for one. The six-inch long incision on his lower abdomen haunts him still.

He doesn't mean to seek it out, but his eyes are drawn to it every time. His finger absently traces over the pink skin. It had been numb for almost a year. He has regained feeling but it still tingles at the touch.

The moment he was healed enough to drive, Germany set out for the barricade. But Russia had beaten him at _that_ game. The guard pulled out a briefing and held it up to Germany's face. Grey eyes flicked from face to paper back to face.

"You are not allowed to pass."

"You don't understand. This is _my_ land. And I have all the papers – "

"No, _you_ don't understand. Your papers don't matter. I can arrest you or shoot you. Or _you_ can turn around and go back to where you came."

The guard slung his rifle under his arm, emphasizing the point.

Germany punched the steering wheel, cursing as he drove home.

He wrote a letter to his brother, in the blind hope Prussia might _actually_ get it. The envelope returned, unopened, a few days later. He tried writing to Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia – all with the same result. In desperation, he phoned Russia's house. Lithuania answered. The Baltic gasped and quickly hung up the receiver when he heard Germany's voice. He appealed to the Western powers, but even _they_ were met with the same dead ends….

Germany pulls a sweater over his head, mussing up his damp hair even more. He doesn't take a comb to it. He can't remember when he stopped. All he knows is when the fog finally clears, he doesn't want to see himself reflected in that streaked surface.

He goes downstairs to make some coffee. He rarely has an appetite for breakfast. Besides, frying up sausage and eggs to eat by oneself seems pointless….

He casts a weary eye over his house as he rounds the stairs. The furniture hasn't been polished in weeks, the floor is un-swept, and piles of miscellany have formed in any available corner. His brother would say it looks "lived in," but to Germany it's dirty and cluttered. Still, when he _tries_ to clean the mess – and by God he has tried – he finds he can't throw anything away.

Germany retreats to his study once the coffee has brewed, burying himself in paperwork. It requires no thought, no memory, no wondering _if that, so then_ – just a yes/no, sign on the dotted line, stamp and done, onto the next. He tells himself he likes it that way.

His doorbell rings.

His house is no condition to receive visitors. Absolutely no condition, but that doesn't stop him from answering.

"Yes?" he growls, pulling the door open.

Germany's back stiffens when he sees the large man standing on his porch.

"Hello Ludwig," Russia says, face disturbingly blank.

Germany's hand tightens on the doorknob. "What is this about?"

The door is only open halfway. If he's quick enough, he can shut it and lock it before Russia can react. There is an umbrella beside the coat rack if not….

"He wanted to see you," Russia says, lifting one shoulder. Then, voice adopting that childish lilt, he calls behind him: "Tolya, it's okay. Don't be frightened."

A small, pale hand wraps itself in Russia's coat. A round face, topped with a head of hair so blonde it's practically white, peers from behind the large nation.

Russia holds out a hand. The boy takes it, stepping out from behind his guardian.

"H-hello, _Vati_," the child says in a voice so soft it's barely above a whisper.

The doorframe catches him before he can fall. A shaky hand clutches his heart. The child looks like an eight-year old. But he was born only two years ago…he should barely be walking, unless….

"Ludwig, this is Anatoli," Russia says, but his voice is all but lost for the rushing of blood in Germany's head.

He cannot speak. His gaze is fixed on the child. The boy ducks his head, edging closer to Russia. His eyes flit up to meet Germany's briefly. They are violet, too.

An icy burst of wind pulls on Russia's scarf. The boy gives a perceptible shiver. Russia wraps his arm around the child. "May we come in? It is quite cold out."

"O-of course," Germany says, finding his voice. It is raspy and strained and oh God what the hell is he doing? Russia is _in his home!_

They go into the living room, Germany keeping more than an arm's length away from the taller man.

"I apologize f-for the way things look around here," he says, more to Tolya than Russia. "P-please have a seat."

Tolya looks around the room then up at Russia. He has not let go of his guardian's hand.

Every available seat is already occupied with books or papers. Germany hastily clears away the mess from the armchair by the fireplace.

With an encouraging nod from Russia, Tolya takes the seat, hands clasped politely in his lap. His back is straight and rigid and Germany can't help but think how uncomfortable the child looks.

"Y-you can listen to the radio, i-if you wish." Germany runs a hand through his already messy hair, going over the wooden console, all too aware that both sets of violet eyes are watching him.

Tolya looks back at Russia. The large nation nods again. Germany turns the dials until he finds a jazz station.

"Is this okay?" he asks the boy.

The ghost of a smile flits across Tolya's face as he nods his head.

"Ludwig," Russia says, and the smaller blonde's face blanches when he turns and sees the larger man standing beside him. _He didn't even _hear_ Russia walking across the wood floor…._

"I need a word with you." Russia tilts his head towards the front porch.

Germany can feel his stomach turn to ice as he grabs his coat from the rack. "Make it quick."

Russia's eyes do something funny at this statement –contracting almost sadly – but in another instant the look is gone, replaced by his usual dead stare.

"Tolya, we're going to have a little talk. Stay there. Don't touch anything, okay?"

"Yes, Uncle."

On the porch, Russia settles himself on one of the wicker chairs. He looks up at the other blonde, indicating he should join him. Germany prefers to stand. He pulls out a pack of black cigarettes and lights one, casting furtive glances through the window at the boy – his son.

"Those are France's," Russia observes.

"_Ja._"

"When did you start smoking?"

Germany cocks an eyebrow, casting Russia a sidelong glance that screams: _When do you think?_

They lapse into silence. Russia leans forward, elbows resting on knees, and fidgets with the fringe of his scarf. Germany stubs out his cigarette and lights another. He takes the seat opposite the large nation despite the exploding protests in his head. Russia is nervous about something, and if _Russia_ is nervous, it can't be good.

"So which one is he?" Germany asks, clearing his throat. His voice has lost some of its edge. Despite their past, he is still a nation and will let order and diplomacy govern this meeting, even _if_ the guest is uninvited.

"What?" Russia asks, genuinely surprised at Germany's change in tone.

"…Tolya." Germany says at length. The name feels strange on his tongue. He stops himself from saying _our son._ "Which one is he? He's just like us. Is he a country or state or – "

"He's – Ludwig, I'm sorry – " Russia's hand moves from the folds of his scarf. Under friendlier circumstances he would have placed it on the German's shoulder, but the other blonde is already shrinking away. Russia rests it on the arm of the wicker chair, fingers digging into the undulating weave.

"My boss wants to make him a country…with the land you gave us."

_I didn't_ give_ you anything…._You_ took! _Germany_'s_ hand flinches. He takes a puff from his cigarette to hide it.

"…But that should be – "

"Gilbert's. I know. That's what I'm here for."

Russia reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out.

"Prussia's dissolved…"

"I know that," Germany says, his words becoming clipped again. He will never forget the stricken look on France's face when he told the German what their bosses decided….

"…but there's more. He…he wanted me to give you this," Russia says, pressing something cold into Germany's hand.

The blonde uncurls his fingers, looking at it. Gilbert's Iron Cross.

"He's gone, Ludwig."

"G-gone?" The words stick in his throat. "How…?"

"I'm not sure," Russia says, simply. "He just…sort of…faded…as the year went on. None of us thought it would happen. My boss was against it from the start – "

"Oh and that's supposed to make it okay!" Germany scoffs. "Don't you dare – don't you even!"

He is on his feet, fingers curled around the thing in his hand, metal edges digging into his flesh. "Almost _two years!_ I tried for nearly two years to make contact – with him _and_ my son – and you shut me out! And _now_ you show up, trying to _pretend_ it's not your fault!"

"You don't have to believe me but it is true."

Russia is calm and Ludwig hates him for it. He wants another's rage. Wants it to equal his own so he can yell and scream and punch and kick….And above all he wants to _not_ believe Russia. But he does. It wasn't Russia's fault, but _his_ for starting that damned war in the first place….

Germany collapses back into the chair, cradling his head. "You have no idea what it was like…not knowing."

"Nothing I can say will make up for it. But I was hurt, Ludwig – "

"Hurt?" Germany snorts, looking up. "Hurt? You have _no_ right to even _suggest_ Ihurt _you!_"

Russia swallows, looking at his hands. "I…I just wanted to be a part, like a family….Ludwig, I lo – "

"Well, you can't. So just get that twisted idea out of your head right now."

"…He really did want to see you – "

"Will that be all, _Russland?_"

"…I'll be back in a week to get him – "

"_Will. That. Be. All?_"

"…Yes."

Russia stands. Germany shoves his chair so far back it creaks against the house's paneling. Russia sweeps past him, coat brushing his leg. Germany cringes.

He watches as Russia makes his way to the black car parked in his driveway. He watches the large nation get in and drive off. He watches until he can no longer see the taillights.

"Is Uncle gone?" the boy asks when he sees Germany enter the house.

"Yes," Germany says, falling on the couch.

Tolya nods once, turning his attention back to the radio. Germany leans one elbow on the arm of the couch, resting his head in his palm and staring at the Iron Cross in the other.

"Isn't that Uncle Gilbert's?"

Germany jerks his head up, studying the boy.

"It _was_." He shoves the cross into his pants pocket, but the metal has left an imprint from where he squeezed it too hard. Then, realizing the full weight of Tolya's words, Germany asks: "Did you know him?"

The boy nods earnestly. "He taught me German. He and Uncle Russia talked about you a lot. It's why I wanted to come visit."

"I see," Germany says slowly. Another question burns in his mind and he hates himself for wanting to ask it. Instead, he dances around it. "Do you like Uncle Russia's house?"

Tolya nods again, smiling. "It's always full of people. And Lithuania's dinners are really good. And Uncle made me these gloves for the winter."

He pulls out a pair of red mittens from his coat pocket. "It's cold over there. Much colder than here."

Germany nods. "…So, he treats you well?"

"Of course, _Vati._ Uncle is proud at how much I've grown."

"…And has he ever said…I mean, did you ever…wonder why you couldn't live with me?"

"I asked him once." Tolya's face becomes unreadable. "He said you couldn't support me after…after the war." The boy looks around again at the cluttered house.

Germany's face darkens. He ducks his head to hide the glaring expression from his son. _Of course Russia would lie…._

His eyes begin to water. He's suddenly aware of how thick the air is. He blinks away the tears and hitches a smile onto his face. "Are you hungry?"

The boy nods and Germany goes into the kitchen to fix lunch, thankful for the distraction.

* * *

><p>The next day, he wakes up before the sun. He gathers all the cleaning supplies from under the sink and begins the arduous task of scrubbing and polishing every room in his house.<p>

Tolya gets up just after nine. Germany has finished the downstairs and is cooking breakfast.

He is surprised to see the boy wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Then it dawns on him: "You didn't bring any luggage."

"No. I left it in the car," his son says, lowering his gaze. "I didn't know if…if you'd _want_ me here…."

Germany's hand clenches around the spatula. He stoops down, placing a hand on Tolya's cheek. "Don't _ever_ think that, okay?"

Tolya's eyes flick up to Germany's and he sees his son's eyes aren't just violet – they are violet marbled with blue and deep shades of crimson. The boy's nose is long and thin, coming to a sharp point. His bow-shaped mouth gives him a puckish look. _Like Gilbert. _The thought flashes, unbidden, through Germany's head. Eyes widening, the blonde nation straightens his back, turning back to the sausages on the stove.

"We'll get you some clothes today after breakfast. How's that sound?"

"Okay," the boy shrugs.

Tolya perches on a stool at Germany's counter, watching the other fix breakfast. The taller blonde finds this a little unnerving. He's happy to have his son with him, but Tolya's manner is more than just curious. Germany feels like he's under surveillance – the kid hardly blinks!

"If you'd like, you can listen to the radio again." _Why did this kid make him so nervous?_

Tolya shrugs. His eyes dart around the kitchen then out to the living room.

"You cleaned," he observes.

"Yes, I….You just looked crowded yesterday, with all the clutter, so…"

"I kind of liked it the other way. It felt comfy."

The spatula clatters against the pan, falling from Germany's grip. He glances over his shoulder at Tolya. The boy is back to watching him, sitting hunched over the counter. _Gott, he even _sits_ like Gilbert…._

_ He's gone, Ludwig…._

"Here you go," Germany places the plate in front of his son, struggling to maintain the smile on his face.

"Aren't you eating, _Vati_?"

"Oh, I'm…not hungry." His voice is tight, the lump forming in his throat threatens to choke him. "I've got more cleaning to do."

Germany grabs the furniture polish and bolts upstairs.

He collapses on the floor of his bathroom. He has enough presence of mind to lock the door before the cries rip from his chest.

_He's gone. He's gone he's gone and he _cannot_ come back! 'My boss wants to make him a country….' Tolya will take your place, bruderlein. But it wasn't _supposed _to be this way! I always thought you'd come back to me…._

* * *

><p>The rest of the week passed. Father and son kept any conversations light, filled with an almost formal politeness. They were complete strangers to one another. Still, when Russia came to pick up Tolya, that didn't prevent Germany from embracing his son just a bit longer. Didn't prevent him from whispering: "You are always welcome here. If you ever want to come and stay…."<p>

"I know, _Vati. _Will you write to me?"

Germany glances up at the massive nation staring down at them. He knows Russia can hear every word.

"If that's all right with your Uncle…."

"Of _course_ it is," Russia says in that falsely sweet voice. "Go wait in the car, Tolya."

Germany stands, watching his son run up the black sedan.

"But I can't promise he'll want to come back…." Russia says, turning and heading for the car.

"What do you mean?" Germany growls under his breath. "_Russland!_ Please! Please don't keep him away…."

But Russia is already getting in the car, Germany's words falling on cold ears.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN **O.K., just a couple of things about this chapter: I made East Germany's name Anatoli, and Tolya is his nickname. According to different websites, it can mean either "dawn, sunrise, or east." His full name is Anatoli Ivanovich Beilschmidt. Yeah, Ivan didn't give him his last name, just his middle name (Ivanovich means "son of Ivan")._

_Tolya calls Ludwig "Vati" which is German for "daddy."_

_As for the age thing, in my head the nations reach adulthood fairly quickly until they just sort of plateau – like for instance Germany is hundreds of years old (in human years) but he still looks like he's in his twenties._

_And one last thing…..OMFG! I fucking LOVE Germany/Russia as a pairing! Okthatisall._

_Thank you for reading and feel free to review!_


	4. Chapter 4 These Things We Do

November 1948

_ "I-I know it's putting you in a bad spot, but…i-if you could just _talk_ to him…."_

"I will, _Vati."_

Germany exhales. _"…Thank you, Tolya."_

Through the static, his father clears his throat. At any moment, the line could be cut.

_"I hate that you're in the middle of this…I…you r-really shouldn't have to…"_

"Don't worry, it'll be fine…."

_"…because…_none_ of this is your fault. You know that, right?"_

"I know, _Vati_ – "

_"Our history is…well…complicated."_

His father's voice is anxious, infectious. Despite his assurances, Tolya's own head begins to fill with doubt.

_"It's not your fault."_

Would Russia really listen?

"I _know, Vati_. I'll talk to him. It will be okay. I love you."

_" I-I love you t – " _

Germany is too late. On the other end, the static crackles through the silence. The line has been cut.

Cursing, Germany hangs up the receiver.

His stomach growls and he knows it's not his own hunger he feels, but his people's.

He is thinner, skin stretched taught over what little muscle remains. The Western powers have been doing their best with the airlift, but it's gone on for too long. He can't keep asking them for help. He can't ask his people to live like this.

* * *

><p>"Uncle? I need a word with you."<p>

"What, Tolya? Can't it wait until morning?" Russia grumbles, sliding a stack of papers across his desk.

"No, it can't."

"If this is about – "

"They're starving!" Tolya's voice cuts through the heavy silence of Russia's study. "I don't know what your past has been like, but he's _my father!_"

Russia sighs, leaning his elbows on the desk and rubbing his face with two massive hands. He had been working all day, every day, for what feels like months. His eyes are rimmed with red and he doesn't have the patience to listen to Tolya's rant about the blockade again. He has more pressing matters….

"Why do you hate him?" The boy's voice is a desperate mumble. Russia is unsure if he'd meant for him to hear it. But he did. Russia hears everything in his house. He looks up, studying his son.

"…You wouldn't understand."

He opens a drawer, taking out a glass and a bottle of vodka.

"Then help me to."

Still eyeing his son, Russia pours a drink. In just a year, the round face of childhood has been replaced by the long, sharp features of adolescence. The boy has grown so fast. Russia still forgets sometimes. Soon they will be equals.

A heavy hand passes over his forehead. "…Have a seat, Tolya."

The boy takes the chair opposite the desk. Russia remembers, not too long ago, when Tolya would have sat on his knee, wanting to be held by those thick, warm arms….

"We should have been allies, him and me," Russia says, sipping the clear liquid.

"What, during the war?"

"Yes. We would have been _so_ powerful. We would have been unstoppable…." Russia briefly presses his lips together. "But he betrayed me…."

Tolya listens as Russia tells of neutrality pledges, trade agreements, secret talks…the invasion, a broken pact, territories lost, civilians killed….

Russia pours himself another drink.

Tolya has remained silent, listening as the rocky past of the two nations unfolds. Questions and connections form in his mind.

They sit in silence for a moment until Tolya feels he's found the right words to pare down the tumult in his head.

"…So…is he…bad?" Tolya's eyes are lowered, fixed on the rug beneath his chair. It is easier staring at the intricately woven pattern than at Russia. His guardian. The man who raised him. Because he cannot face Russia, his guardian, the man who raised him, with shame-filled eyes. He is a part of Germany. And if he is a part of Germany, then he must be bad too. Tolya's brow wrinkles, trying to make sense of it. During his short existence, the world only existed as black and white. There were no grey areas muddying his mind. There must be a definite. And if Russia – his guardian, the man who raised him – says Germany is bad, it must be true. Unless….

"_Papochka_…" Tolya begins, watching the other nation closely – he chooses that word deliberately – and he's not sure how the large nation will react. Russia has always been strict about proper titles, insisting he be called "uncle" instead of "father." But Tolya knows. Ever since he was an infant. Russia dotedson him. The arctic nation could be terrorizing the others that lived in their house, but the minute Tolya came in the room, his whole demeanor would change. It was like the sun emerging from the blackest storm clouds. He is Russia's world and he knows it. None of the other nations he calls "uncle" or "aunt" treat him that way, with so much affection.

"_Papochka, _did you love him?"

It is a question that has burned in his head ever since he could talk. From what he's read in books and from interactions he's seen in the streets, Tolya feels he has a good grasp of the concept and what it can do to people.

Russia's face is stone, though inside his head is reeling. In the hour since their conversation began, something has shifted in Tolya. He is no longer the adolescent caught between youth and maturity. He is the adolescent walking the fine line between obedience and rebellion. And it is clear to Russia, his son can certainly figure things out on his own. If he acts now, he will most assuredly secure his son's loyalty, but how can he tell him the truth when _he_ barely understands it?

"Just because you are part of him does not make you bad, Tolya," Russia says, fixing his son with a knowing look. "…And, I suppose…I did. He gave me you. But he will not join with me, and if I cannot control him, I will make sure he remains a weakened nation. The world cannot endure a strong Germany again."

Tolya stares back, defiantly for a moment. A part of him feels slighted by Russia's words against his other father. He wants to protest, to defend the part of him that _is_ part of Germany; but Russia is his parent, his protector, his teacher. What did Germany do other than birth him?

Tolya drops his gaze back to the patterned rug, tracing the swirling floral design with his eyes until they become dizzy. So many questions tumble around in his head, but he cannot catch even _one_ to make sense of it.

The air becomes thick again as silence settles over them. Tolya chances a glance at Russia. He's torn between wanting to continue their talk and smashing something. The larger man smiles back – vacant, guarded. Tolya knows that look. He's crossed into some forbidden territory. He just wishes Russia would tell him _why_ everything must be so secret.

Tolya finds a swirl that looks disturbingly like a face from his angle. He stands, twisting his boot heel in. He imagines it's Russia. Imagines it's Germany.

"...'M sorry I disturbed you, _Pa – _Uncle." He mumbles the quick apology as he turns, making sure to dig his boot heel in extra hard, and exits the study.

Russia smiles inwardly. He has won. At least for now. But his son's words rattle him. _Did_ he love Ludwig? _Yes,_ a voice screams at him. He'd almost _said_ the word in January, so what stopped him? Was it the word itself or the fact he didn't know if he really understood its meaning. No, that wasn't it. He knew the meaning, he knew what he felt was love. He loved Lithuania. He loved Latvia. He loved Estonia. He loved his sisters. His own vulnerability stopped him from saying it – to Germany as well as the other nations in his house. It was easier – so much easier – to hurt _them_ before they hurt _you._ So much trust, expectation, suspicion, hangs on that one little word. Love is easily a weapon, one that can be turned on its wielder. What if they'd laughed at him? The scars Love leaves burrow deeper than any bullet hole. And what pain! His heart twists in his chest just thinking about it. He wishes he could tear it out.

It was easy, all too easy, to tell Tolya he'd loved Germany. It had no meaning in that context. It's what Tolya needed to hear. But soon, the boy will have to learn the truth. The great truth that has kept Russia's heart protected for decades: Fear and Control are faster means to an end than Love. They keep you well guarded. They give you power over others far greater than Love ever could. Because it's on _your_ terms. No need to entrust another with your most secret hopes and nightmares only to have them turn against you and shame you with it.

Russia grabs the neck of the vodka bottle and takes a pull, ignoring the glass beside it. He'd humiliated Ludwig that night. He'd made the German fear him. Made him hate him. And _he_ should have hated Ludwig, too, after what happened before the war…but there was something so _willful_ lurking behind those icy blue eyes. It fascinated him. Ludwig would not be easy prey, unlike the others. So Russia returned a few nights later – partly to try and bring the German under his will and partly (secretly) just to be held in that unyielding gaze.

Russia takes another swig, staring at the spot where Tolya just sat, remembering the original intent of his visit. Maybe he _could_ ask his boss to end it. Just like he could ask winter to become summer. No. Some things just have to play themselves out. And Russia admires Germany's resistance. Part of him believes it's just for him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN **Ahhh, puberty. Isn't it awesome? And even though in my head, Ludwig will **always** be bottom, I can't help but think Russia secretly wants to be dominated! XD _

_Some historical/linguistic notes: takes place during the Berlin Airlift, loose references to the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact (sometimes I wonder what the outcome of the war would have been if Germany had never broke this pact and invaded the Soviet Union)_

_I tried to find a diminutive, transliterated way of saying "dad" in Russian…."Papochka" was the closest I found. As a side note, my boss is Russian (technically Ukrainian, but to Americans, it's all the same right? Just kidding, don't shoot me) and I've heard him call his dad "papochka" when he talks to him on the phone._


	5. Ch 5 Painting Pictures on Cave Walls

There is a room in Germany's house no is allowed to enter. Not the Allies. Not his boss. Not state visitors. Not even history professors wanting a leg-up on their research.

The door handle is simple. A rounded brass knob, just like all the others in his house. Except this one has something the others lack, something easily overlooked by any casual observer. A lock. Only Germany has the key, though, before the war, the room never needed one.

That room belonged to Gilbert.

On certain days, when the chores are all done, the dogs have been walked, and what little paperwork he's allowed has been complete, Germany finds himself digging out the key.

He keeps it on a pewter chain around his neck, resting next to Gilbert's ancient Iron Cross, tucked underneath his shirt.

It's on days, like this, when the house is _too_ quiet (even for him) that he goes upstairs, unlocks the door, and buries his face in his brother's pillow. What little scent there is left of Gilbert remains, and Ludwig cries even harder for it.

His biggest regret is never getting to give his brother a proper goodbye.

He blames the Allies.

He blames Russia.

He blames himself.

He wonders if there was a body.

If Russia gave Gilbert a proper funeral.

If Gilbert was buried in Königsberg (now Kaliningrad).

But then he remembers those words Russia spoke, and the stricken look on Russia's face. _'He just faded, Ludwig.'_

Russia had been scared – not just about the news he was delivering, but because he'd witnessed first hand what happened to nations. They fade. Without land, without people, without power, they become nothing.

Ludwig always imagined someone taking a pencil to his brother and erasing every last bit of him, like in those cartoons America liked to watch – the ones with the duck and the rabbit. It was absurdly comical, that mental image of Gilbert turning into pink eraser dust. Ludwig had half laughed at himself for thinking it before the laughter turned to cries of disgust. _How_ could he abuse his brother's image like that? How could he laugh at the dead? So, guilt-ridden, he re-drew Gilbert in his head and promised to keep him that way forever. Not as eraser dust. He kept that perfect picture of Gilbert locked away in his head until the next time he needed it. Then he would pull it out, examine the image, erase it, and re-draw it all over again. Each time it happened, the details became less clear. Gilbert's outline was smudged pencil lines, thick and heavy in some parts and light and sketchy in others. His proportions were all wrong too – his stature shorter, his eyes bigger, _rounder_, like a curious child's….

_Like Tolya's._

Hadn't his son fixed him with the same wide-eyed, piercing gaze? And hadn't he reminded Ludwig _so_ much of Gilbert?

Every time he re-drew Gilbert in his head, he drew his son.

_Tolya_ is_ Gilbert._

Ludwig's eyes slowly dry at the thought.

Tolya _is_ Gilbert!

Ludwig rolls over onto his back. Gilbert's Prussian flag hangs above the bed, just visible above his brow. The bold blocks of black and white shout down at him. A reminder.

He reaches a hand down his shirt collar, pulling out the pewter chain and bringing the cross up to his face, studying the bent metal, the small gouges, the rust spots.

'_Isn't that uncle Gilbert's?'_

A strangled sob breaks from his lips. The sound is like a whip crack in the stillness.

Ludwig squeezes his eyes shut, covering his mouth with his other hand.

_Bruder, you came back to me._

His shoulders shake as new tears – tears of joy, of relief – slide down his cheeks. He holds the newly drawn image of Gilbert (of Tolya) in his head, darkening the lines, making it indelible. He scrutinizes every detail like an art dealer looking for a forgery. Look at the slouching posture, the way the shoulders round, those nose so long and slender, the way the corners of the mouth twitch upward, giving the subject a somewhat mischievous look. And the eyes! Look at how the eyes emanate a certain brightness, a playfulness, but also have a bit of a watchful, suspicious cast, making him appear _that_ much more devilish. Gentlemen, this is no fake. This is the genuine article.

His brother _had_ come back to him. It is not logical. It is not _rational_, but he _knows_ it's Gilbert. Why couldn't it be? The formation of nations is just as indiscriminate as their disappearance. And _hadn't_ his brother been an order of knights before becoming Prussia?

Gilbert is Tolya. Tolya is Gilbert (nevermind _both_ existed together for a few years.) The paint is set. The canvas has dried. There will be no more eraser streaks smudging out what is there. The two have been forever etched as one in Ludwig's mind.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN** OK. I know this is a short one, but I had to get it out or else it would continue to fester for :::coughs::: five more months in my word processor. I do apologize for its brevity (my original plan had been to extend it and include appearances by Russia and Tolya, but that will have to wait for the next one.) I hope by posting this, the floodgates will open and my updates for this fic won't be **as** painfully slow (butwhoamikidding,theyprobablywillbe.) Thank you to all my readers/reviewers/favoriters for putting up with the long delay. Until next time!_


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